


The Power To Change A Heart

by evenifwecantfindheaven



Category: Coco (2017)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-15
Updated: 2020-01-15
Packaged: 2021-02-24 19:08:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,879
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22262974
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/evenifwecantfindheaven/pseuds/evenifwecantfindheaven
Summary: When Imelda’s father announces that Hector is forbidden to marry her, he is willing to do anything to set things right. Featuring Ernesto, Oscar, Filipe, and the inspiration behind a famous de la Cruz monologue.
Relationships: Héctor Rivera/Imelda Rivera
Comments: 1
Kudos: 25





	The Power To Change A Heart

In recent weeks, all gossip in the town of Santa Cecilia had turned to Imelda Solis, the eighteen-year-old singing waitress, and Hector, the seventeen-year-old mariachi she was courting. At bars and around quiet fireplaces, people placed bets as to how it would end. Maybe they’d elope, and six months later she would come crawling back home, bitter and spoiled. Maybe he would get her pregnant and then disappear on his own. Maybe they’d run off with mad dreams of performing for the world, like a small circus, and wind up desolate.

Imelda’s father, for the most part, never bothered with her. She did her own thing. Always had. But now that his own name was beginning to pass through the lips of distinguished businessmen and harlots alike as “that man who’s _hija_ is about to ruin her life,” he was ready to draw the line.

Oscar and Filipe weren’t exactly sure what had happened. All they knew was that one minute, they were asleep with their faces buried in wool blankets, waiting for Imelda to come home from the restaurant with some leftover food. The next minute, the wall adjacent to their bedroom was shaking.

“What, did you think I was going to be your servant forever? You should be grateful that I’ve put up with you this long!”

“Ay! I never thought I would say this, but I am so grateful that your Mamá is in the land of the dead. She would be disgusted right now!”

“Of course she would! You think she’d like what you’ve let happen to this family?”

That was interrupted with the sound of something being thrown. Something hard, like a book. It hit the wall. Oscar jumped.

_“Could ‘Meldita beat Papá?_ ” Filipe whispered.

“You’re not seeing the musician again, Imelda! I forbid it!”

“What the devil makes you think that you have any right to make _my_ decisions anymore? Eight hours a day, six days a week, I’ve been on my feet at that _restaurante,_ paying for every scrap of food, every stitch of clothing...”

“Ah yes, which is why you have only rags to wear. Like those ugly chanqueletas you wore today.”

“Those shoes were a gift, _idiota._ My wages from this week are in the kitchen waiting to be mixed up and baked into bread. Where are your wages? Between some _puta’s_ knockers?”

Another object got thrown into the other side of the bedroom wall. Something heavier this time.

Oscar leaned closer to Filipe. “It depends what shoes she’s wearing. If she has the heels on, yes.”

“You are _forbidden_ from seeing him! End of discussion!”

“No, I’m going to marry him! _End of discussion!”_

Filipe lowered his voice to a volume that was barely audible, even to his brother who’s face was mere inches from his.

“I hope she has heels on.”

Oscar did, too.

In that moment, Señor Solis’s eyes landed on a closed music box. His wife’s most prized possession. He walked by it every day, yet he rarely thought about it. It played a soft, sweet tune and had a dancer inside. His darling Bianca’s burnt mahogany eyes were reflected in Imelda’s, as were her tiny nose and demure stature. Yet her softness and tenderness had been lost in translation, in favor of...whatever this was.

For the first time in the five years since his wife had died, the man wondered if he had failed. If perhaps allowing Imelda to work had turned her masculine, and he shouldn’t have just had her stay home and keep house like all the other girls.

Then again, Imelda had always been headstrong. Even when Bianca was alive. She had always been loud and selfish and unwilling to negotiate when it came to the things she wanted.

In any case, he wasn’t going to fail again. Not this time.

The twins shook with a start when they heard a few vicious screams of protest at a higher pitch than they’d thought either their father _or_ their sister capable of producing.

Then a slam.

Then a key in a lock.

“Let me out of here this instant you _diabolo!_ This _instant_ or I swear the minute I get out, I’ll cut off your hand and shove it down your throat so hard you choke on it!”

Only she didn’t say hand.

The twins looked at each other. Imelda’s voice was muffled. She was trapped.

Moments later, they heard the knob of their own door turning. Filipe shot across the room to his own bed not quite in time to make it look as though they hadn’t been listening through the wall.

The older man looked down at two pairs of copper eyes. It was strange to think that his sons were the same age now that Imelda was when Bianca died. They seemed much more pleasant to be around. Much more agreeable, especially Filipe, which was almost concerning. They did their chores and whistled and made jokes and asked people how they were doing. They were kinder than other boys. It pained Señor Solis to think of the gossip that could come about when his sons came of age. People could start to think that genders of _all_ of his children had been an accident.

Well, he wasn’t going to let that happen.

“You may be wondering why you sister is locked in her bedroom.” The boys did not stir or react. “Sometimes, when women want to make bad decisions, it is up to us men to make sure they don’t.”

Filipe swallowed and tried to look more brave than he was.

“Do you understand?”

Filipe nodded. Oscar did too, begrudingly. He felt like he was betraying not only his beloved sister, but also Héctor, who had promised to be good and kind to Imelda and had let them hold his guitar and taught them how to play _Juanita_. Héctor, who had told them they were good musicians and that one day he would buy them their own instruments so that they could play with him and Imelda and Ernesto.

Papá had never promised to buy them instruments. The only useful thing he ever did with his money was pay the rent.

“Good,” said Papá. “I’m glad you understand. This is good for you to learn now. Someday, you will have wives and daughters, and you will have to control them.”

And he closed the door and walked away, with the key in his pocket.

As soon as the boys were alone, Filipe’s eyes began to water.

“Did Papá ever lock up Mamá?” he whispered.

“I don’t think so,” Oscar replied.

The boys laid in their beds, wide awake, and listened as their sister’s screams turned into sobs.

“I’m never doing this to my wife!” Filipe whispered.

Oscar made a face. “Why would you want to get a wife?”

Filipe shrugged. “Because women are pretty?”

“They’re not _that_ pretty.”

More time passed. The sobs faded into softer sobs. Then nothing.

“Do you think ‘Meldita’s hurt?” asked Filipe.

“Nah. You know her. She’s probably in there building a weapon.”

Filipe smiled. “She’ll break that door down by sunrise!

Sure enough, within a few minutes they heard the pounding of a broom handle against the door. Then, after a while, a snap as it broke in half. Then muffled cursing.

“She needs something stronger,” said Filipe. “Like...an iron.”

“How are we gonna get her that? It’s not exactly something we can shove under the door.”

“Maybe you can distract Papá and I can steal the key from his pocket.”

“No! That’s too dangerous.”

It would be hard to plan their way out of a tricky situation without Imelda. They’d never done it before. She was the one who’d taught them how to open all the shutters in the house from the outside in case they ever got locked out. Sadly, Imelda’s bedroom was the one where the window was too small for anyone to crawl through. Come to think of it, that was probably by design.

“Hey,” Filipe whispered. “You know what I’m thinking?”

Oscar grinned. “I’m thinking, we need backup.”

Fortunately, they were perfectly capable of sneaking out their _own_ window.

* * *

Héctor Rivera was known for his guitar playing. He was known for irritating people with pranks and jokes, then making them smile and blush in the next breath. He was known for songs that made people laugh and cry and swoon and think about life all in the span of thirty minutes.

What he wasn’t known for was getting angry.

For a long time, even Ernesto thought that his best friend was immune to the emotion. Héctor was the one who dragged him away from bar fights and other stupid arguments with men who wanted to duke it out over who was the best musician or who got to dance with the prettiest girl. Héctor was the one who shoved a cold beer in Ernesto’s hand and told him to settle down so he wouldn’t get his ugly mug bashed in even worse than it already looked. (Which Ernesto thought was hilarious, because obviously, he was the handsome one.)

That misconception about Héctor ended five minutes after two preteens tumbled into his house, where he and Ernesto had been napping between rehearsals, and started frantically telling him that they needed his help to break Imelda out of her bedroom.

“Why is your Papá doing this?”

“Because...” Oscar explained calmly. “He doesn’t want Imelda to see you anymore. He thinks that because you’re a musician, you’re not going to be able to provide for her.”

To that, Héctor stood up, snatched his old brown guitar, and slung it over his shoulder so roughly it was a wonder the ratty thing didn’t snap in half in the process.

“Héctor, you need to think this through!” Ernesto implored as raw, unadulterated determination wrote itself on Héctor’s face.

“I have to do this! I have to try!” Héctor cracked his knuckles and started towards the door. Ernesto slid in front of him and gently grasped Héctor’s shoulder with his left hand.

_“Mi amigo,_ what the hell do you think you’re about to go do to this man? Shove the neck of your guitar down his throat? Toss rocks at his window while singing _la cucaracha?_ I know, I know this isn’t fair. But it’s how things work. He’s her Papá! He makes the rules.”

Héctor shrugged Ernesto’s hand off. _“_ You can follow the rules. _I_ am going to follow Imelda.” He opened the door and began walking down the hall. The twins followed behind, and Ernesto, after locking up the room, hurriedly followed suit.

_“Camacho..._ ” Ernesto sighed. “He will never listen! You thought those _caballeros_ in the plaza last week were bad? Javier Solis is built like a storm cellar! If _I_ wanted to win a fight with him I couldn’t!” Héctor continued marching out the building, down the road, and did not look at or talk to any of his companions.

“So, I have a plan. How about we don’t tell Papá you’re in the house?” Felipe finally suggested, once they were all out of anyone else’s earshot. “Oscar and I will get the key, and then we can give it to you, and we’ll get Papá out of the house somehow, and you and Imelda can run away and never come back. That way you don’t die, we don’t die, and Imelda doesn’t cut off anyone’s...”

“No!” Héctor snapped. “I have to talk to him!”

Somehow, the thought that the scrawny musician was going to march into this man’s house armed with an old brown guitar and try to _reason_ with Señor Solis was even scarier than anything the group had been picturing.

“Héctor,” Ernesto weakly protested. “He will _never_ give his permission!”

“I’m done asking permission.”

Oscar, Felipe, and Ernesto bumped along behind their comrade and silently began thinking forward to the following dia de muertos and the yummy plates of food that they’d be setting out for Héctor, and the nice songs they’d play in his memory.

“There are other senoritas, Héctor. There aren’t other lives to live if this man kills you.”

Oscar had to admit that Ernesto had a point. Besides, he thought, looking at Ernesto's chiseled face and perfect head of hair, it was obviously an objective fact that women weren’t as attractive as men were. It was like...comparing music to the sound of metal clanging.

“Think of all you have left to do,” the older man pleaded. “Think of all the songs you have to write.”

Héctor whipped around.

“She’s not just another girl, Ernesto! And she’s not just another thing in my life! She _is_ my life! When I’m happy, it’s because of her. When I’m unhappy, I think of her. Don’t you know that feeling? What it’s like to see someone and feel like you were meant to be with them? Like you never knew you could love someone so much, but you do?”

Oscar and Felipe looked at each other.

Felipe tried to hold back a grin. “You _love_ Imelda?”

“Of course I do. Who wouldn’t?”

The answer, of course, was plenty of people. But Héctor Rivera was never going to be one of them.

And that is what he told the man he found standing in the doorway to his girlfriend’s home. Humbly and politely, but firmly. The sun had settled in the sky by now, so a few neighbors had come out to feed their chickens and sweep their steps. So Héctor’s request was heard by more sets of ears than he’d intended.

“You love _mi hija?”_

“Yes. I do. And I would do anything for her.”

There was a pregnant pause. Señor Solis was painfully aware that there were a dozen or so people around, even including his own boys. How would his fellow townspeople expect a good man like him to handle this?

“Listen, boy. I understand that you love her. But it’s not about love. Even if you were willing to die for Imelda...”

“I am!”

“...you would still be a frivolous seventeen-year-old boy who flounces around from one town to another calling singing a career. You’re still a child. Not _matrimonio_ material.”

“Because I’m a musician?”

“Yes.”

“Fine then. _No mas musica.”_

Señor Solis quirked an eyebrow. Héctor's expression was stone-cold serious.

“Really? You would give up music for my daughter?”

In answer, Héctor took off his guitar and flung it on the ground.

A few of the surrounding neighbors, who had been pretending to carry on with their tasks, stopped entirely. Ernesto inched up behind the guitar, poised to pick it up at his earliest opportunity.

“You’re serious? I allow you to court Imelda, and you’ll give up music forever?”

_“Si. Lo promento.”_

“Why should I believe you? How do I know you’re not going to marry her and go straight back to being a _mariachi?”_

Héctor looked down at the old brown instrument. And in one, swift motion, he picked up his guitar by the neck and brought it down as hard as he could on the earth, splintering the wood. Then he grabbed the neck with both hands and hit the instrument against the door frame. Surrounding folks gasped.

There was a sickening crack. The sprinkling of splinters. And that was it.

_“No mas musica.”_

A few moments went by. Oscar took note of Ernesto's shameless cringing at the smashed guitar. Filipe nudged him as he watched their father reach for his pocket.

"Well," the older man cleared his throat. "Never let it be said that I'm not a man of my word. As long as you don't play or sing any music-at all-you may continue to see Imelda. Wait right here."

Señor Solis closed the front door and disappeared into the house. A few minutes later, he emerged with Imelda, who immediately leaped into Héctor's arms. They disappeared hand-in-hand down the path. Once they were far enough away from prying eyes and ears, he told her everything.

"I hope you don't think I'm really going to let you stop playing music for me," Imelda nudged him and winked. "I'll buy you a new guitar-a good one. A better one."

"But _mi amor,_ your Papá-"

"Won't be able to tell us what to do forever," Imelda finished, with a meaningful look on her face as she gave Héctor a peck on his cheek that made him blush down to his toes.

"But until then, no music. I'll make money some other way."

"Ernesto must be livid."

"He'll survive. I did what I had to do." He cupped her cheek in his. "Only the truth has the power to change a heart."

They shared a long, sweet kiss under the setting sun. Then Héctor walked Imelda home and dropped her off at the door. For a moment, he glanced down at the pile of splinters he had left here a while ago when he smashed the guitar and wondered if, perhaps, he should have sold it. But no. This had been more important. The girl he'd been in love with his whole life-who miraculously loved him back-was finally within reach, and he wasn't going to let her go.

And he didn't need the money that badly. After all, he already had the ring. 


End file.
